


Punch Drunk

by ReaderRose



Series: Unrelated Events From An Unnamed Underfell Timeline [6]
Category: Undertale (Video Game)
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, All The Bad Things You've Surely Come To Associate With This Nice Series, Alternate Universe - Underfell, Angst, Domestic Violence, EXP and LOVE (Undertale), Gen, Punching, Underfell Grillby, Underfell Papyrus, Underfell Sans
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-10
Updated: 2017-12-10
Packaged: 2019-02-13 03:14:41
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,784
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12974637
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ReaderRose/pseuds/ReaderRose
Summary: UNDERFELLHe'd hit Sans.Oh god. He really hit him.There had been no intent, no loss of HP. Sans was alive but he'd hit him. It didn't matter why. No ‘why’ could ever justify the act.He hit him.





	Punch Drunk

**Author's Note:**

> This is an older WIP I found and just finished up now. I think it fits the timeline for the series pretty well. While the actual admission/confession isn't stated here, it's not a fontcest thing and you can probably figure out from context, roughly, what it was. Thats probably going to end up in a different entry in this conga line of misery, so I didn't explicitly include it here.

He'd hit Sans. 

Oh god. He really hit him.

There had been no intent, no loss of HP. Sans was alive  _ but he'd hit him. _ It didn't matter why. No ‘why’ could ever justify the act.

He hit him. 

Everything was silent. Everyone was silent. 

The awful greasepit was usually so deafening, too loud and too bright and the smell and the lingering taste in the very air and it was always so damned  _ hot, _ but somehow he hated the silence more than any of those other things. Any other time it might have been a reprieve. Not now. 

All eyes were on him, yet another corruption of what might have one been welcome. What to do… what to do…? He'd damaged his brother's dignity enough tonight, and he doubted Sans would want him touching him. He'd never want him to touch him again after this. That was justified. That was right. That was fair. He’d hit his brother. 

But the only other option besides the violation was to stay. To stay here in this pit of sins and grease and waste and let his brother stay here, drunk beyond measure, bleeding (BLEEDING! Because of HIM!!) from the mouth, stammering and slurring and… so utterly vulnerable. He was so vulnerable and what had Papyrus done but use that opening and hurt him? He'd told him something secret, something so deeply personal, and his only reward was to be hurt. He was already hurting and… and… 

Why was he like this? Why were they like this?

Papyrus made a decision. He'd already made himself the villain. He'd already harmed. He'd already hurt. He'd already violated. They could not stay here. Staying meant he was going to have a breakdown, and that could not be allowed. It wasn't just a matter of pride. Pride  _ was _ what suggested the course of action, but Papyrus did not deserve pride, so that wasn't the motivation. Sans was already vulnerable. If Papyrus allowed for himself to be the same, they faced a very real threat of harm, and this time there would be intent. Even shocked by his own actions and overwhelmed by the miserable establishment, he could still sense a threat, and one was lurking in the back corner booth, incredibly interested in the night's events. And that was only the one willing to show his intent more openly. 

Who knew what the others were thinking, planning, preparing, enacting…?

No. They needed to leave. 

Papyrus grabbed Sans (he was not gentle. There was no time to be) and hoisted him over his shoulder. He glared over to the bartender, flashing his eyes red. A threat. An empty one, but that didn't matter. He needed to be certain his words carried weight. 

“IF YOU EVER SERVE MY BROTHER ALCOHOL AGAIN, I WILL SHRED THIS SHACK APART UNTIL ALL THAT IS LEFT ARE THE SPLINTERS STICKING OUT OF YOUR NECK.”

Would wood splinters even harm a fire elemental? He wasn't sure. It was just the first thing he came up with. He was rather clever, usually, something he prided himself in, but tonight's had spent most of his mental and emotional energy. Perhaps this was why Sans's jokes had become so stale, recently… He could not bear the thought, nor could he stay. He stomped out of the building, brother over his shoulder, wondering if Sans was cognisant enough to feel mortified. Papyrus may have felt it enough for the both of them. 

He hoped to never set foot in that bar again. 

 

It was a quick walk home, mercifully. Most of Snowdin was either at the bar or in their homes for the night. They were not hassled, though Papyrus had stayed vigilant. There was always a possibility. There was always a threat. Even being home did not ensure safety. Nothing ever could. 

Sans laid on the couch. His sockets were open, but the lights were out. For once, Papyrus hoped it was simply his being too drunk to be truly conscious. It could also mean he was lost in thought, replaying the night's events. Papyrus did not want that. He wanted him to forget. Forget the night. Forget the terrible thing his brother had done. Forget the admission… god. The admission. 

Sans had confessed to something that Papyrus had not wanted to hear. And instead of helping him, he hit him. 

Papyrus wanted to forget, too, but he could not afford to. 

Papyrus positioned himself where he knew Sans could not see him, and allowed his face to fall, his posture to slump, his eyelights to fade back to their natural white, and flicker out to the more familiar emptiness. On Sans, the empty sockets looked menacing and wrong. On Papyrus, the opposite effect. They made him look goofy and approachable. They emphasized his mismatched sockets, the odd, overlong shape of them. He'd kept them like that for so long as a child, hoping for a friend who never came, that the state had once become his most natural one. (Now, he kept up the red. He needed to be scary and strong and cold and calculating. Now, red was natural.)

He was upset. He was frustrated; he was angry; he was lost. He'd hit his brother. Publicly. Because Sans said something he didn't like. What kind of a monster was he? Was this really who he was? Had he changed this much? 

… Even now, sure, he was upset and emotional, but he was concerned with _himself._ _His_ actions, _his_ personality, _his_ changes _, his loss of control._ He wasn't worrying about Sans. Sans who had said an awful thing, an awful _truth._ Sans who had been driven to drink. Sans who had been harmed by his own brother, who was meant to love him and support him, and protect him, even in this world, _especially_ in this world, where everything was bad and awful and dangerous but each other. 

Only Papyrus was dangerous now, too.

He did not allow himself to cry. He would have if he were younger. If he were “weaker.” If he were  _ better.  _ Catharsis was entirely undeserved now. He wanted to cry, and moreso he wanted to smash things and break things and break people and oh god, what even  _ was _ he? But he would do none of it. 

Instead, he walked over to where Sans was on the couch. 

“SANS, ARE YOU ALRIGHT?” A question nearly as stupid as the one who asked it. 

A muffled mumble was his only reply, and still more than he deserved directed at him.

“SANS, I…” I'm sorry, he wanted to say. The words didn't come. 

Papyrus summoned his green magic. He was actually very good at it, for someone who did not specialize in the field. It was a well kept secret. There were very few he was interested in healing, and to do so for bribes would be inviting trouble. 

There was a crack in Sans's lower jaw, and he knew he could fix it with ease. He paused a moment trying to allow Sans the opportunity to protest. It never came. Papyrus did what he could and patched the crack right up, as if it had never happened. (But it had.) The tooth, in the other hand, that didn't look right. It was dislodged, and there was a chance he would lose it. That sort of healing went beyond him. The old turtle in Waterfall, the psycho in the lab in Hotland, the king… that was the extent of the options for the tooth, and even those were mere guess. The hospital in New Home was not an option. He would never return to that place. ...Perhaps the innkeeper? She took bribes for healing, he knew, though he supposed that were she any good, she wouldn't also have to run a shady bed and breakfast. It wasn't as if there was a short supply of potential clients. 

Sans was in no condition to go anywhere, and the thought of dragging him through town again, past the bar, for the sake of the tooth… He couldn't. He would just have to try what he could, though if he failed to save it, his brother would be permanently marred. His smile would never be the same, and Papyrus already saw little of it. 

He did what he could and carried Sans once more, this time to his bedroom. Papyrus had no idea how his brother could prefer a bare mattress, but he'd always insisted. It couldn't have been comfortable. Papyrus brought in his own blankets and pillows. It felt wrong to leave him with none, and he did not plan to sleep anyway. He couldn't. Not with this on his mind. 

 

He sat and he thought, and thought, and thought, until his soul finally settled, though unfortunately his skull hadn't yet. He felt along the crack in it. Headaches like these only exacerbated the pain and made it just a little harder to plan and to think. He worried it could be damaging, but it all seemed quite temporary, and he'd lived with the condition for this long, without issues. 

He wondered if he should go to the hospital, beg forgiveness to the doctor who had seen him, and let them deal with Sans. Maybe if he paid them extra, they would be inclined to agree to his terms. He didn't think he wrecked up the place so badly as be unforgivable… perhaps they would understand that he had not been in his proper mind?

...no. He couldn't trust that. He couldn't trust them. He didn't trust anyone anymore. He could barely trust himself sometimes!

And then he remembered: he didn't trust Sans anymore, either.

...right. Right.

He felt again at the crack in his skull, the way it cut through his socket, the way it branched at the back. It was something horrible he'd just barely survived, and Sans… At worst he had been entirely complicit, and at best, apathetic to saving him. 

So… when he looked at it like that, wasn't this only fair? Now they were both damaged because of the other, and at least Papyrus would be honest from the start about it. He could at least say he _tried_ to help. Unlike Sans.

In fact, why did he care, if Sans wanted to drink himself to death? Who cared? Papyrus cared, for some reason. But he cared less, now, that the situation had ended.

 

The panic had faded, and with it, his energy. He'd done his part, right? Stopped the bleeding, saved him from the bar, healed up what he could... Yeah, he'd done enough. 

Sans could deal with the tooth, and the hangover. It was only right. Papyrus needed his sleep.

 

 


End file.
